


Never The Same

by flippinsirens



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alone Dean, Character Death, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Not Beta Read, because Sam is already dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flippinsirens/pseuds/flippinsirens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Non-AU (thought, that's debatable) They've done all they can. They've saved thousands of people, a hundred times over. So, after everything, they can only live. At least for a little while longer. And when something turns Dean's entire world upside down, he can only follow the dark spiral that consumes him. He can only wait. Because he can't do much else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never The Same

Dean stared at the house; their house. At how empty she was now that Sam was gone. At how lonely and depressed she looked now that there wasn't someone else living there.

Sure, he had been alone for years when Sam went to college and then those moments when one died and the other had to wait for them to come back. But they always came back. Always. It was different now. There wasn't anger, the sense of abandonment, the period of waiting impatiently and being tortured in Hell, none of that, to tone down the sense of loss of his brother now. There was only the fact that Sam really was gone now. Forever. And that thought made Dean's stomach knot unpleasantly, his skin melt, his head swim.

To make matters worse, they both thought that they would die in some fucked up, supernatural way. It really only made sense, what with being Hunters and the shit that they've seen. Never once did the thought that something as ordinary as fucking pneumonia. Though, considering that Sam left at the age of fifty-seven, that in itself was a miracle.

But it still left a horrid taste in Dean's mouth every time he'd call out for Sam to stop bitching and to get his ass to the table only to realize that Sam wasn't going to come down the hallway and call him a jerk.

It left an all too familiar sting behind his eyes when he'd set the table for two only to realize that he was only cooking for one.

When he went to bed at night, he still felt as if he would puke out everything because the dent in the bed where Sam slept is still there and the sheets still smell like him.

He can't bring himself to sleep in the living or the guest bedroom because he's a masochist and just needs Sam to be there. To be in their bed. In their house. In his life.

He never thought that he'd outlive his brother, the one that was always so careful with hygiene and precautions and being safe and taking medicine at the slightest sniffle or headache.

He still hasn't thrown away Sam's things from the bathroom. His toothbrush, hair brush, shaving kit, cologne, deodorant, shampoo and conditioner, after shave...the blood-soaked towel that still hangs on the hook by the shower. He won't touch any of it. Refuses to have any of it out place. Because Sam would be upset if they were. And then Dean remembers that it doesn't matter because Sam isn't there anymore. And at that thought, he can't hold back the urge to empty out the contents of his stomach.

Sam's favorite pillow still sits on his side of the couch even though that entire couch was practically his due to his size. But he'd always lay his head on Dean's lap and snuggle with that pillow in his arms.

Dean only buys one cologne now because it was the one that Sam had sniffed thousands of times while he was laying in that hospital bed, waiting to die, holding onto his brother's hands with a firm, determined grip. Because Sam was strong even until the last second.

And it was Dean that broke first, who sobbed into Sammy's hair and begged him to stay, to stay here and continue to just be, to just live.

And it was Dean who had to be pried away after everything was said and done because he just couldn't let go, didn't want to. Because it would mean that he'd never feel Sammy, his Sammy, again.

It's only been three years since then. And Dean still can't stop seeing Sam standing beside him. Still can't stop hearing him, smelling him. One reason for that one is because Dean keeps buying Sam's cologne-not touching the one bottle that still sits on the bathroom counter undisturbed and half empty-and spraying it throughout the house every once in awhile just because it's a comfort.

He's been told to move on, that this is normal but that it's time to stop grieving, but he can't bring himself to do it. Because if he does, then Sam really is dead. And he can't accept that.

He still can't breathe when he thinks about how he'll never kiss or hold or hug his Sammy again and it feels like his chest is caving in and his lungs are giving out and he bangs his fists on whatever surface he can reach and he sobs on the cool tile floor of their kitchen because he lost all motor function and can't move because it's just too much and too overwhelming.

Cas comes by almost every day. He sits and talks to Dean but nothing changes. Dean still sits there, silent as the grave, staring blankly at the wall behind the new vessel's head. Because there's no point in talking if Sam isn't there to put in his two cents or to have some remark to spir out or some laugh to let roll off his chest. Cas always promises that it'll get better, but Dean knows it won't.

Can't.

Because the only reason he was here was because of Sam, and the only reason he stayed was because of Sam. And the only reason he hadn't killed himself already was because he promised Sam that he wouldn't do anything stupid. But at this point, the only thing he considered stupid was to continue on without Sam.

But he knew that Sam would be yelling at him for even considering that an option if he could, if he were here.

So Dean tries. He tries for Sam.

Two more months pass and Dean is practically a vegetable. He doesn't eat or drink, barely sleeps. He's stopped crying and puking and punching things and those aching knots are gone.

Those hitches in his breath have stopped.

His eyes have lost all color.

His mouth is fixed into a permanent state of frown.

His hands lay limply on his stomach as he lays on his side of the bed.

He's stopped spraying Sam's cologne but he still won't touch anything that once belonged-belongs-to the giant.

He's stopped calling out to Sam-stopped talking altogether.

Cas is sitting in the chair at the side of Dean's bed in the next second and says something but the words don't make it to Dean's ear. Because there's no point.

When he closes his eyes to blink, however, it's slower than normal, longer, too long, and they slip close. Perhaps he's finally falling asleep after being awake far too long.

But this time, he can't open them, and all he knows.

In his last moments of consciousness, all he hopes for is to see Sam in their heaven-because it exists, they've been there before-because life isn't worth living if his soulmate, his lover, his brother isn't there with him.

And so Dean was lost, was gone, just like Sam, and it sure as hell took long enough in his opinion.


End file.
